


In Between

by Kahvi



Category: Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-12
Updated: 2009-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:33:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow-up to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/171535">How Clouds Are Born</a> - Noel returns from the US, and to Julian. But these things are often complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Between

Dee will have a fit, of course. She always does when Noel pretends his phone isn't working, when really he's just let the battery run out. _You're on another fucking continent_ , she'll snarl; _it's not a binge in Camden. You drop off the radar, I worry_. It's not the first time.

It's been five days though. Probably time.

Noel plugs the charger cord into the mains, runs the sleek black wire through his fingers. The connector pin is thin and tiny, like an anorexic phono plug. It slides into his phone easily though. Good for it, Noel thinks, lying back on the hotel bed, letting the phone rest on the floor. He waits, silently, for the little series of buzzes signifying texts and missing calls to start, but they never do. He's half asleep when he realizes why; he hasn't turned it on.

He dreams about it; this is the state he's reduced to now. That little envelope showing up, and text appearing, mindless banter back and forth. It's not even absurd. Dreams are always absurd, aren't they? This one's ridiculous; just like real life, with brighter colors maybe. Then again, Noel always dreams in bright colors. He wakes in a sweat, a little hung over from last night still, maybe, slips out of his clothes and heads for the shower.

He manages, for almost fifteen minutes, not to think of Ju.

Five days. Six, now. And before that - a week? Two? Did it count when they were at the same party and missed one another? It doesn't count if they're in the same place, surely. There is something sobering about the water, and Noel giggles. He's a teenage girl. He's his own fangirls, that's what he is. The crazy ones, that think they're him, and write him long letters in crayon. Laughable. Ridiculous. The soap hurts his eyes when he rubs them.

 

* * *

  
Noel can feel the phone in the pocket of his jeans. He likes having it there. Likes the feel of it. It's not turned on yet, but there's still time. While it's not turned on yet, he doesn't actually know, which is somehow relaxing. There’ll be a message, obviously, but you can't say there won't be, which is the more important aspect of it all. And nine hours later, he'll be in London, and... well, he'll be in London. Maybe that doesn't matter, one way or another.

At the gate, with ten minutes to go before boarding, Noel reckons it's time. The phone feels warm in his hand as he holds the on-button down with his thumb, biting his lower lip.

Nothing.

Then a buzz. Then another. Five little envelopes buzz their way in. Noel looks at them, guardedly. You can't just open one at a time, which is annoying. When you accept, you see the whole list, so you'll know who's sent the others too. Like with e-mails. Noel doesn't like e-mails.

He waits five minutes; a couple more. Then the lady calls for boarding, and soon it will be too late. He presses the button. They're all from Dee, word for word what he had expected.

 

* * *

  
More than one person has told Noel that an eight hour flight is easy to get through; it’s just like a day at work, isn’t it? It might not have occurred to those people that sitting down for eight hours had never featured prominently in any of the jobs in Noel's career. The hours fail to rush by as he works his way through three tiny bags of nuts and a doll sized bottle of white wine, ignoring the meals he’s offered, and the so-called in-flight entertainment system.

Noel likes to write when he’s traveling, and he could; there’s a biro in his pocket, and a well-worn notebook in the pocket of his jeans, all bendy now, no doubt. He pulls it out, contorting in his seat to get to it, and giggles at the shape. It’s like trying to write on a flat, oblong banana. He makes a drawing of that, then shoves it into the pocket of the seat in front.

They used to write all the time, him and Julian. When they didn’t write, they’d talk. There didn’t use to be mobile phones, not fancy ones, anyway, and not everyone used to have them. When Noel got a pager, they would make up nonsensical codes, Julian texting from his phone. They would meet, and talk. They would just be together. And the writing never stopped, it just turned… different.

Everyone says Noel’s the one that changed, but Noel’s always changing. Only on the outside, though. They haven’t drifted apart; they’ll never do that, and Noel knows they won’t. They’re one blood; they’re bongo brothers. He’s seen Julian’s babies and held them in his arms. Really, all Noel wants is him happy, and there’s no question there, is there?

It’s just different.

 

* * *

  
The plane lands at Heathrow, and Noel folds himself out of his chair. He leaves the notebook in the seat pocket; you never know who might need a picture of a flat, oblong banana. These flights are long.

 

* * *

  
His bags don’t arrive, and he’s filling out the form to have them sent home to him, two eager teens looking over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the address he’s filling in, when his pocket vibrates, unexpectedly.

“Ju,” he says, almost before pressing the button, having fished the phone out awkwardly. “I forgot to turn it off during the flight. I could have brought us crashing down in flames! Imagine the looks I’d get from people as they were being sucked out of the gaping holes in the plane.”

“You’re back in London, then?”

And just like that, everything’s normal.

“We should write something soon,” Julian says.

“Yeah. Something about bananas.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

On the way out of the terminal, he calls Dee.


End file.
